


The Patchwork Knight

by acrosticacrumpet



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Sir Gawain and the Green Knight Fusion, Bisexuality, Chivalry, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, F/F, F/M, Fairy Tale Elements, Identity Porn, M/M, Polyamory, gawain & the green knight: now with even more secret identities!, i have an agenda and it's called Everybody Loves Faramir
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-04
Updated: 2021-01-04
Packaged: 2021-03-14 01:13:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28537896
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/acrosticacrumpet/pseuds/acrosticacrumpet
Summary: On the first day of the new year, a strange man dressed in patchwork appeared in the court of Gondor - and Faramir of Gondor made a choice that would take him far from home, to strange lands and stranger company.Or: Faramir stars in a retelling of Sir Gawain and the Green Knight, now with 100% more polyamory.
Relationships: Aragorn | Estel/Arwen Undómiel, Aragorn | Estel/Faramir (Son of Denethor II), Arwen Undómiel/Faramir (Son of Denethor II), Arwen Undómiel/Éowyn, Boromir (Son of Denethor II) & Faramir (Son of Denethor II), Éowyn/Faramir (Son of Denethor II)
Comments: 12
Kudos: 21





	The Patchwork Knight

**Author's Note:**

> the motto of this fic is "faramir can have a little sexy chivalry, as a treat"
> 
> i wanted to post a seasonal fic, so i thought i'd mix it up a little and post a fic at new year. then, of course, i failed to finish the fic by new year and now it's late. but hey! usually i shoot for christmas and finish by epiphany, so i'm actually doing better than usual!
> 
>  **warnings:** this fic is neither as sexy nor as boundary-push-y as gawain & the green knight comes across to the modern reader, but some of the same vibes of "people pushing even when they hear a soft no" are present. 
> 
> this fic doesn't super adhere to "canon" either for LotR or for gawain & the green knight: it's more like those were the two toyboxes where i picked out stuff to play with. hopefully what i made with it is something you can enjoy! 
> 
> and happy new year, all. i'm glad you're here to see it.

Listen well! For I will tell you a true tale, a tale of wonder and a tale of history, on this first of the Yule nights.

Long ago, time out of mind, there were two kingdoms sprung from the ruins of a greater, like flowers growing from the bones of a dead tree. Gondor and Arnor they were called, brother-kingdoms, as their kings were brothers. The same royal line ruled in both: and as token of their kinship, in each realm there grew a White Tree – a gift from far Elfland. For Gondor and Arnor in the morning of their power were good friends to that strange folk.

But the years pass, and fortune’s wheel turns. Gondor grew proud and mighty, and its men and its fame were known everywhere. And Arnor diminished; and at last men ceased to call it a kingdom, and it passed out of all remembrance.

Yet Gondor too had its store of sorrow. The line of its kings failed. On the death of the last king, the men of Gondor chose a new leader, as was their ancient custom; but for love of the dead king, they called this new leader not king, but only lord. So the Lords of Gondor have been called ever since. And for love of the dead king, the White Tree sickened, and died. There was no other White Tree after it, for Gondor had turned its face from Elfland, to the realms of men.

There were some who said then that the line of kings lived still in the ruins of Arnor, on the borders of Elfland – just as there are those who say so now. But who now believes them?

In the reign of the Lord Denethor, wisest and most shrewd of the Lords of Gondor, my tale begins. It was the fourth night of Yule and the first day of the new year.1 Knife had gone into meat, drink into horn, and there was feasting and merrymaking in Gondor.2 No man has seen feasting unless he has eaten and drunk there, and no man has heard merrymaking unless he has heard the music and song that echoed in that hall of old.

In the throne of Gondor sat the Lord Denethor, with his two sons at his sides. Boromir and Faramir were their names – names that all men knew, for both had won renown in feats of arms. And other tales there were of them: tales that although the Lord Denethor loved both his sons, it was Boromir he loved the more. When Boromir the bold returned from some great deed, the Lord Denethor laughed for joy. Faramir was a quieter man, and his father, for all that he loved his son, frowned when he did speak.

But never, so the tales say, have any two brothers loved each other as those did. If Boromir was bold, Faramir delighted in his brother’s daring; and if Faramir was wise, Boromir rejoiced in his brother’s counsel.

Loud was the hall of Gondor in its merriment, for its people were a merry folk, and never more so than in the Yule-days. Yet on that night all men fell silent, when the two great doors of the hall were flung open.

In came a great wind from the north, making the candles flicker. In came a great wave of rain, scattered across the faces of the guests. And with them, through those two doors, a man walked in.

Ah, but a strange man! Tall and strong, in the manner of the men of old – but dressed like the poorest beggar. For his tunic was so worn and stained you could hardly say what colour it was, and so patched you could hardly call it one garment. And the hood of his great dark cloak hung so low over his face that no man could say what he looked like.

He rode no horse, he bore no sword: he seemed a wild man come in from the waste lands beyond Gondor, and the court was struck silent. But Boromir the brave said: “Good sir, be welcome in this hall! If you come to feast with us, sit you down and eat, with all gladness.”

“I will not sit,” said the patchwork knight. “I will not eat. It is not for feasting I have come.”

And Boromir said: “Then what brings you here, and how can we serve you? For it is the first night of the new year, and the court of Gondor is not miserly with its gifts.”

“I ask no gift from the court of Gondor,” said the patchwork knight. “From Gondor I will take no gift.”

Then Faramir rose, and said: “Sir, then for what purpose do you come?”

Said the patchwork knight: “I come to test the mettle of the people of Gondor. I come with a challenge, to see if there is valour left in Gondor to answer it, here in the place where the White Tree stands dead. I come with a game: if anyone will take this” – and he drew a knife with a long, leaf-shaped blade3 – “and strike off my head with it, then I shall leave this court in peace. And he shall come to me in a year’s turning, and receive such a blow in his turn.”

These words angered Boromir, and he said: “Can you dare to speak so in the court of the Lord Denethor? If it is a fight you want, a fight you shall have, for I’ll give you one. But why sully the floor of this ancient hall with your blood?”

But Faramir stepped forward and said, in a softer tone: “Good sir, is there no other way you can be satisfied?” For he feared for his brother.

“There is no other satisfaction I will take,” said the patchwork knight. “Come, is there none in Gondor with the stomach for it? Will no man here raise sword against me?”

The hall was silent; and the Lord Denethor was silent. And Boromir began to move, but his brother was before him.

Faramir stepped out from his seat. “I will undertake it,” he said, “for the sake of peace.”

Then he took the knife from the patchwork knight’s hand, and he struck his head clean off in one stroke.

But what was this! the patchwork knight took up his own head in his hands, with the blood still running from the wound. And the head opened its mouth and spoke. “Mark you well,” it said, “the stroke you have dealt me. It shall be dealt you in turn, for I charge you to come to me in a year’s time at the Hill of Wind. There shall you have your reward.”

Then the patchwork knight turned, bearing his head in his arms, and left the hall in a great gust of wind.

The singers were quiet, the feasters were still. Then the Lord Denethor rose at last. “Be merry, good people,” he said. “Do not let your hearts be troubled by this churl. For the honour of the White Tree that was, for the pride of Gondor that is, let us welcome in the new year with joy.” And the people took heart: they feasted and were glad.

But Boromir turned to Faramir, disquieted. And Faramir had no answer for his brother’s unease.

For the best part of a year, Faramir sought the Hill of Wind – not in the realms of men, nor yet in the waste lands, but among the records of Gondor. He spoke to wise men and wizards, travellers and tradesmen, to see if any had found a place by that name. At last he learned of the Weather Hills, in the far north: there, he thought, he might find a place called the Hill of Wind.

And it was in his mind that the Weather Hills might be more than they appeared, for they lay amid the ruins of Arnor.

So, in the passing of the year, the time came for Faramir to set out and seek the Hill of Wind. He took his leave of his father, who bade him defend the honour of Gondor with sorrow in his eyes. And he bade farewell to his brother, who said to him, “Whatever may befall, I charge you, come back to Gondor alive.”

And Faramir rode away from Gondor, into the waste lands.

It was a long journey he undertook, and not an easy one. Few were the dwellings of men in the lands he rode through. The cold of winter chilled him to the bone, and the hard riding he had to do, to reach the Weather Hills, wore him down to a shadow. Thus he was – all shadow and bone – when he came at last to the valley below the Weather Hills, in snow and bitter cold.

The hills he could see, but there was no sign to show him which was the Hill of Wind, nor any sign of a dwelling where he might rest for the last few days of the year. For that night was the last before the Yule-days began.

“Now where shall I go for shelter,” said Faramir to himself, “in such a desolate place?”

But even as he spoke, a young man came riding up to him out of the hills and hailed him. “What, stranger, out in the cold alone on such a night as this?” he said, and he offered Faramir a welcome in the house of his lord. Very young he seemed to Faramir; and he gave his name as Dernhelm.

He led Faramir to a house amid the hills. A strange place, that house: though it lay deep in the wilderness, it was as rich and well-appointed as any great lord’s court. The people therein were kind to Faramir, and gave him a warm welcome, and rich raiment to wear.

And none was kinder than the lord of that house himself. He named himself Telcontar, and though he was not young, he was lordly and strong. He welcomed Faramir to his hearth and his table. “Let my house be as your own,” he said, “for as long as you remain here.”

He brought Faramir to a table, and bade him eat and drink. And as Faramir ate – as he badly needed to – there came two ladies out of some high chamber. One was tall and proud, and fair as a morning in spring; but the other, taller still and dark-haired, had a beauty that pierced the heart, and Faramir could not take his eyes from her. For she was no woman, but an Elf.

Then Telcontar named them to him, Arwen and Eowyn. Arwen, the Elf, was his wife and the lady of the house, and Eowyn her friend and handmaiden. And the house seemed stranger still to Faramir: a lordly court in the wilderness, and an Elvish lady ruling it. 

When he had refreshed himself, Telcontar asked him what brought him to the Weather Hills, and how long he would stay. “For I would have you stay the Yule-days here,” said he, “and make merry with us.”

But this Faramir could not promise him. “I have an appointment that I must keep,” he said, “at the Hill of Wind; and ere I keep it I must first find it.”

Telcontar laughed at that. “You will find it easily enough,” he said. “That is the hill called Weathertop, that lies not two miles from here. My lad Dernhelm shall lead you there when the time comes. And until then, you shall rest here, and recover from your long journeying.”

To this Faramir agreed with gladness. And Telcontar got a further agreement from him: a game between the two of them. “You are half-dead with travel,” he said, “so you shall remain here, with Eowyn and my wife for company, while I do the day’s hunting. And as I shall bring you what I gain in the wild, you will give me whatever you gain in the house. Is it a bargain?”

To this, also, Faramir agreed – though he had good reason to be wary of games. But he saw no harm in obeying the whim of a gracious host.

The next morning, the first of the Yule-days, Faramir slept long and deep. By the time he woke, the sun was high and Telcontar already gone a-hunting. So he dressed himself, and wandered through the house, seeking a bite to eat.

But what he found was the house’s library, and who he found was Arwen, the Elf-lady. She greeted him gladly. “Be welcome in this place,” said she, “and treat these books as your own.” And she entertained him with ancient songs, with Elvish lays and verses of love that no mortal man beyond that house had heard, till his heart sang within him. And Faramir recited poetry to please her, all that he could remember.

Then she said: “I see Faramir of Gondor is a learned man.” And she smiled, and bent to kiss his brow.

“You do me too much honour, lady,” said Faramir; and his forehead burned where her lips had touched it.

And the Lady Arwen said: “Faramir of Gondor might ask for more than that, if he chose to.” But Faramir only bowed low, and took his leave.

Later in the day, he came into a courtyard where he found the handmaiden Eowyn. Before her she had a sword and a coat of mail, which she was mending with clever fingers. “Whose mail does the lady Eowyn mend so skilfully?” said Faramir. And Eowyn said the mail was that of Dernhelm, who was away hunting with Telcontar.

So Faramir sat down and offered his help. He took up the mail to mend it, and Eowyn unsheathed the sword and cleaned it with cloth and oil. But when she was finished she did not sheathe it again, but began to practise sword forms with it in the sunlight.

When the mail was mended, Eowyn looked over it carefully. Then she said: “I see Faramir of Gondor is a diligent man.” And she took the hand that had held the mail, and kissed it.

“The lady Eowyn does me too much honour,” said Faramir, and his knuckles burned where her mouth had been.

“Faramir of Gondor,” said Eowyn, “might ask for more, if he chose.” But Faramir bowed, and took his leave of her.

That evening Telcontar, lord of the house, returned with a slain deer. This he offered to Faramir, as the gain of the day. And Faramir came to him and took his hand, and bade him bow his head. “I have nothing else to offer you, lord, but this,” said he, and kissed Telcontar on brow and hand. And his mouth burned at the touch.

Telcontar laughed. “A fine gift,” said he, “and a fine day’s hunting.” And that night they dined on venison. The food was good, the company was better: Faramir went to sleep content.

When he woke, late in the morning, Telcontar was gone out hunting. So Faramir went to see what he might find in the house.

In the great hall, he found Eowyn, arraying it for celebration. The next day was the third of the Yule-days, the last of the old year, and it was the custom in that household to dance the old year out. And when Eowyn learned that Faramir knew none of the country dances in the north, she said that she would teach him.

They danced through the morning together, and Faramir did his best, for in Gondor he had been accounted a good dancer. When they finished, Eowyn laughed and said, “It seems Faramir of Gondor is a courtly man.” And she kissed him on the cheek.

“The lady Eowyn honours me overmuch,” said Faramir.

“No more than you deserve,” said Eowyn, “and less than you might ask for.” But Faramir took his leave of her with a heavy heart.

In the afternoon, he found his way to a room where a great loom stood, and the Lady Arwen was there. She had her threads arrayed and ready to weave, but there was no servant or handmaiden with her to lift them as she wove.

Then Faramir stood to the side of the loom, and asked if he might serve her in this. So they whiled away the afternoon weaving, and Arwen told stories of Vairë the Weaver, on whose loom all history is knit together. She wondered at Faramir’s skill with the loom, and so he told her of his mother, and how as a boy he had lifted the threads for her when the rain fell in Gondor.

When evening came, Arwen smiled upon him. “It seems that Faramir of Gondor is a patient man,” she said, and she kissed him on the cheek.

Faramir said, “Lady, you honour me overmuch.”

“You have deserved that of me,” said the Lady Arwen, “and I might do more, if you asked it.” But Faramir bowed and left her, and his heart was heavy in him.

That night Telcontar came home rejoicing, for he brought with him a slain boar to offer Faramir. And Faramir came to him and said, “Your gift to me is great, lord, and I have but little to give. But you shall have it nonetheless.” And he kissed him on both cheeks.

“If this is all you have to give,” said Telcontar, “then you have given much.” And he smiled upon Faramir. They dined that night on pork, and life to Faramir seemed very sweet.

The next day, the last of the old year, Faramir did not wake of his own accord. Eowyn the fair came to him and woke him from sleep. Her hair was unbound, and she was still in her shift. “Come now, Faramir of Gondor,” said she. “The sun is high in the sky, and you must be waking. For today you shall answer me a question.”

“Lady,” said Faramir, “I will give you any answer that is within my power.”

And Eowyn asked him boldly, “Why, then, do you leave me when I offer you more than a kiss? Why do you leave my lady, Arwen, though her beauty is enough to draw any man to her? For you are a man whose company any woman might be glad of, and we two have shown you that we are glad of it.”

Faramir was hard put to answer her. What could he say? Arwen was the wife of his host, and he had no wish to be the breaking of an oath between them. And it seemed to him that there was love between Arwen and Eowyn also. Yet they both had shown their delight in his company, and never had any woman’s beauty wounded him so.

At last, he said: “If I have brought you any joy, lady, I am glad of it. But she who loves me loves sorrow. For I am under oath to go to the Hill of Wind tomorrow, and there, without some miracle, I will surely die.”

“What is this you speak of?” said Eowyn, and soon she had the whole tale from him: how the patchwork knight had come to Gondor, and what his challenge had been.

“Will you not fight back?” she said to Faramir. “You have a sword of your own, and I do not doubt you know how to use it.”

But Faramir shook his head. “He bore no weapon but that knife, and raised none in his own defence,” he said. “I must go weaponless. Else what is Gondor, but a strong man preying on a weak one?”

“But he had enchantment for his armour,” said Eowyn swiftly. “And so shall you.” And she kissed him fiercely on the mouth.

“Follow me now,” said she. And she led him to a chamber hung with rich tapestries, showing the stars in their constellations: and in that chamber was the Lady Arwen, with her long dark hair all around her like a cloak of night.

Then Eowyn commanded Faramir to tell his tale again, and so he did. The Lady Arwen looked grave at this news. “If this be true,” she said, “it is a great grief to Gondor, and greater grief to me.”

But then she smiled sweetly, and brushed the loose hair from Eowyn’s brow. “Yet Faramir of Gondor shall not die,” she said. “Go you to my bedchamber and fetch my girdle – you know it well.”

Eowyn left, and when she returned, she bore with her a belt of green, embroidered with silver. Arwen took it from her. “I wove this,” said she, “and my hands broidered it. It has a powerful virtue: whoever wears it can never be slain by any weapon. Will you, then, wear it tomorrow for my sake?”

“Who could refuse such a gift,” said Faramir, “or such a giver?” And his heart soared within him.

Then Arwen placed the girdle in his hands. And she took his face between her hands, and kissed him softly.

All that day Faramir spent with the two of them. He it was that braided up Eowyn’s hair for the day, and helped her comb the Lady Arwen’s. For their entertainment he told ancient tales of Gondor; and in turn Arwen told stories from her Elvish father’s house, and Eowyn the legends of Rohan and her kin the horse-lords. And never had life seemed to Faramir so worth having, and so hard to lose.

That night Telcontar returned with no prey but a slain fox. And Faramir’s heart misgave him at the thought of breaking his word to such a lord, who had opened his house so freely to Faramir, and holding back a gift. Yet when he thought of the girdle he had with him, his brother’s words echoed within him: _Whatever may befall, I charge you, come back to Gondor alive_.

So he said to Telcontar, “Lord, though I have but little, I give it freely.” And he took Telcontar’s face in his hands, and kissed him twice over: one kiss fierce, and one kiss soft. And his heart ached within him.

“Alas!” said Telcontar. “I have only a fox, and that is very little to set beside a gift so great.” And his eyes seemed to dance with laughter.

That night there was music and dancing in the house of Telcontar. It was a merry household, and all folk danced together. Eowyn danced with Faramir in the steps she had taught him, and then bade him try them together with the Lady Arwen; and at the end even Telcontar and Faramir made a pair, while the Lady Arwen and her handmaiden spun together. And so the old year passed away in joy.

On the next day, the first day of the new year, Faramir woke early. He dressed himself, and beneath his outer coat he wore the girdle, green and silver. Then together with the lad Dernhelm, in the bitter cold of dawn, he made his way to the Hill of Wind.

His sword he gave to Dernhelm. “If I do not return,” he said, “will you see that this reaches Gondor, so that they know what has become of me?”

“Gladly,” said Dernhelm. “But will you not turn back, lord? Surely your death profits no-one, and least of all those who love you. Turn back now to Gondor, and no man shall learn of me whither went Faramir this day. I will be a true friend to you, if you choose to live.”

“You are a true friend already,” said Faramir. “But there can be no turning back for me.” And he bade farewell to him, and began to climb the Hill of Wind.

Atop the Hill of Wind, he found the ruins of a watch tower, built by Arnor of old. And there, waiting amid the ruins, was the patchwork knight.

“So you have come!” said he. “It seems that Gondor’s men are not faithless, at least. And will you now bend your head for the knife? Or must I call you coward?”

“Sir,” said Faramir, “you need call me nothing. Strike your stroke: I shall not resist.” And he bent his head.

He waited; he listened for the sound of the knife. Then he heard it, but no blade touched him.

“Will you not strike?” he said.

“Be not over-quick,” said the patchwork knight: “I have not yet begun.”

So Faramir held still. A second time he heard the sound of the knife, but felt no blade.

“Will you have done playing,” said he, “and strike your stroke?”

The patchwork knight laughed. “You are hasty, friend,” he said. “But set your heart at rest: I begin now.”

Faramir closed his eyes. A third time he heard the sound of the knife – and this time felt it bite into his skin. Yet what was this! it drew but some few drops of blood, and was gone.

Faramir sprang back. “Come no closer!” he cried. “You have had your stroke, and I have dealt fairly by you. It was requital I promised you, not my life.”

But to his shock, the patchwork knight threw his head back and began to laugh. “Peace, my friend,” he said, when he had done with laughing. “Never did I plot to take your life. But I think you owe some thanks to my wife.” And he drew back the hood from his head.

Behold! It was Telcontar, the lord of the house in the hills, his eyes bright with mirth. “The first stroke I spared you,” he said, “for those first two kisses. And the second stroke, for your kisses on the second day. With the third I drew blood, since you kept back the girdle. But in all else you dealt fairly, and I do not begrudge you your life.”

Faramir’s heart sank. “Then I am shamed,” he said, “and Gondor with me.”

“Nay,” said Telcontar, “what shame is there in holding onto life, when losing it profits no-one? And it seems to me that Gondor can ill afford to lose you. For you have proven her honour thrice over in these three days.”

Then he took Faramir by the hand. “Come,” he said, “and see the reward you have won.” And he led Faramir through the ruins of the tower, into the last remnants of a courtyard.

And there in the centre of the courtyard, shining in the sunlight, was a White Tree.

Faramir gasped, and turned to Telcontar. “Who are you, lord?” he said. “Who are you, that you can test the mettle of Gondor, and offer this in return?”

And Telcontar said: “I am Aragorn son of Arathorn, last of the line of Arnor. No longer are my people kings, and never shall be again. But the keeping of the White Tree is still our task. I thought to give a sapling to Gondor. But how could I know that Gondor would prove worthy of it? So I put her people to the test.

“When you came here, I set my wife and Eowyn to test you, and so they did. On the first day you proved learned and diligent. On the second, patient and courtly. But most of all, you showed yourself a brave man and an honest one – and only to such a man will I give any sapling of the White Tree.”

Then Faramir could hardly speak, for joy and wonder. And Aragorn led him back to his house in the hills, where Arwen and Eowyn were waiting to greet them.

Eowyn stepped forward: in her hands she held Faramir’s sword. “Bear it well, lord!” she said. “You have carried it with honour.” And her smile was like the dawn.

“I thank you,” said Faramir. “But how did you come by this? Did Dernhelm hand it to you?”

The Lady Arwen laughed. “She is Dernhelm,” she said. “Often she has ridden out in this guise, the better to do great deeds. But this time her task was to bring you here, and then to lead you to your meeting.”

Eowyn bowed. “Will you forgive me for deceiving you?” she said.

And Aragorn put an arm about Faramir’s shoulders, and said, “Will you forgive us all for the test, and stay the rest of the Yule-days with us?”

And Faramir said yes, with his heart soaring. And never were any Yule-days spent in greater joy than those. The wine and song flowed freely, and the kisses more freely still. For the love and friendship that was between those four was very tender, and very deep.

At the end of the Yule-days, Faramir rode back to Gondor, bearing with him a sapling of the White Tree. Great was the rejoicing in Gondor at his return, and still greater the gladness when he revealed his prize. But none was gladder than his brother, who cared nothing for the White Tree, when Faramir had come home alive and whole.

So it was that a White Tree flowered in Gondor again, as it would for many years after. But as for Faramir, the tales are many. Some say that he married a horse-maiden out of Rohan, who came to dwell with him in the city of his fathers. Others say that one day he rode away and was never seen again in the lands of men. But there are tales that say he left Gondor each year at Yuletide, to ride into the far northlands, and spend the Yule-days there. As to which you believe, I leave that to you, my friends.

And may all our years end as happily!

  1. In the Shire calendar, there are six Yule-days: three of the old year (the last two days of Foreyule and the first of Yule) and three of the new (the second of Yule and the first two days of Afteryule). That's the calendar that applies in this fic.
  2. This is a reference to the medieval Welsh tale _Culhwch ac Olwen_ , in Sioned Davies' translation: "Knife has gone into meat, drink into horn, and a thronging in the hall of Arthur".
  3. One of the "daggers of Westernesse" that Frodo and company find in the Barrow-mounds, for the curious.




End file.
